


Escape the studio

by AtPK



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtPK/pseuds/AtPK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barduil Interpretation Day: Zombies</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape the studio

Bard slumped down on the small comfortable couch in the green room and rested his head back to stare up at the ceiling. The studio had told him his flight was delayed due to circumstances; he was sure he would have known exactly what circumstances if he’d switched over the channel, but a rerun of last night’s Oropherion was on the TV and Thranduil was right at that moment quietly and calmly ripping the shit out of the politician in front of him. Bard didn’t think he knew of any other current affairs presenter that had made more people in positions of power cry like babies and admit they were wrong on live TV.

Bard didn’t really know why people agreed to go on his show at all when they knew full well what a sassy little bitch he was. Bard closed his eyes, listening to Thranduil’s cultured words and soft syllables. He hated this time, just before he was due to fly out to yet another war torn country, and report on the shitty conditions of both the soldiers and civilians. Part of him was glad his flight had been delayed. Maybe if it was delayed long enough, they’d send him home again.

Bard hated saying goodbye to the kids more than anything. And although they all understood it was his job, Tilda always cried, and he knew they spent the whole time he was away worrying if he was going to come back. It was a father’s duty to protect his kids from such worry, not pile it on top of them. He could still see the look in Bain’s eyes from that morning, how he’d stood tall and told Bard that he’d look after everyone while Bard was gone. It made Bard both very proud and very sad.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep but when he opened his eyes, Oropherion was over, and some cooking challenge programme had taken its place. His neck hurt from the angle he’d been resting and he stood up, stretching out his back. Surely Tauriel should have returned by now to tell him what the situation was, as a studio liaison she was usually one of the best.

The coffee in the silver flasks was cold, so he went to the water cooler instead. It was as he was passing the door that he spotted a face peering in at him through the small glass panel in the wood. First he frowned and then he smiled, recognising Tauriel’s familiar eyes.

“Hey, you took long enough, didn’t you?” He said as he opened the door. “What’s happening then; am I heading home?”

She lurched into the room as if she’d been drinking for half the afternoon, shambling against the door frame and then falling against the wall. Bard reached out to help her and she lunged at him, her teeth gnashing and saliva hitting his face. He jumped back immediately.

“The fuck, Tauriel.” he yelled in surprise.

She pushed away from the wall and fell towards him, her fingers grasping for him. Bard shuffled backwards putting the refreshment table between him and her, giving him enough time to realise that there was something terribly wrong with her. Her eyes were glazed and staring, almost completely white and there was what looked like blood around her mouth and on the front of her pretty cream blouse.

“Are you sick?” he asked, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “Are you hurt?”

She didn’t seem to hear him at all, but lunged forward over the table to try and grab him again, this time adding angry snarling to her game, like a dog wrestling its prey.

“Tauriel, honey, c'mon.” he tried to reason. “It’s me. Bard.”

But she wasn’t having any of it, bodily throwing herself onto the table, apples and pears and bananas raining down around him. She caught him by the shoulder as he turned to run, and jumped onto his back. He tried to throw her off, battling with his hands and her face, trying to force her teeth as far away from him as possible. It was like some obscene piggy back ride, but only with the other person trying to rip his throat open, instead of kissing his neck.

Bard finally managed to catch her arm and fling her around and over his shoulder. She was up again in an instant, and he grabbed the first thing that came to hand. The silver coffee flask. She ran at him, madness in her eyes, and he swung the flask. It made a satisfying crushing noise as it hit her head, but otherwise it didn’t make a single difference.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She tilted her head to the side as if listening to him, and then she gnashed her teeth, drool and blood dribbling down her chin.

Bard swung the flask again, harder, knocking her down. She grabbed his foot and tried to bite his ankle. He hit her again and again and again and again. Until she stopped moving. And then continued to hit her some more just for good measure. When he finally stood back, letting the flask drop from his hand, her head was no longer a shape that he recognised.

Bard staggered back and fell against the raised arm of the couch, once again slumping down into the plush cushion, smearing blood and gore on the friendly shiny bright orange. He stared at her for a long long time, or at least until he heard more noise in the corridor, and fell to his knees, frantically grabbing for the flask.

The shuffling feet got closer, and then Alfred, the studio bosses assistant, flew into the room, slamming the door behind him just in time for another one of the things to crash into it, hard enough to crack the glass. Alfred spun around eyes wild to check if he was alone, and almost died on the spot when he saw Bard brandishing the coffee flask. He backed up into the door, only to jerk away from it again when teeth started to gnash at the glass panel, making the crack larger.

“Mr Bowman, sir.” he cajoled a moment later, seeming to realise that Bard was neither one of those things or trying to eat him. “You’ve killed one of them.” he continued, looking at what was left of Tauriel. “I knew you’d be a good one. I said, if anyone can survive a zombie apocalypse, it’ll be Bard Bowman.”

“Zombie,” Bard latched on to the only thing that mattered in the other man’s nonsense rambling. “As in, the walking dead.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred, nodded vigorously. “A pandemic, they said. Spread like wild fire, they said.”

“Who said?” Bard demanded, his blood turning cold and his thoughts running instantly to his kids.

“The news.”

“We’re a news station, Alfred. That doesn’t help.”

“That’s all I know.” Alfred finished snipily, with an unhelpful shrug of his shoulders. It wasn’t enough. Bard needed to know. He needed to know if it was everywhere or just here. He needed to know how people became like it. He needed to know if there was a cure.

“I’m heading to the newsroom; someone there might know more than you.”

“It’s not safe.” Alfred beseeched. “Those things are everywhere.”

“I’m going to open this door, you can either stay in here with that,” Bard pointed at the spittle covered window. “Or you can make a run for it with me. It’s up to you.”

Alfred suddenly looked dangerous, a glint in his eyes that made Bard question if he wanted the other man with him at all. They both stood to the side of the door, Bard lifting the coffee flask up ready to use if necessary, and then he flung open the door, hard, using the zombie’s own weight against it. It stumbled and lurched and fell forward on its face. Bard ran, leaping over it and out into the corridor.

Something grabbed him by the arm and yanking him back and the next moment Alfred was belting it out of sight, leaving Bard in his wake. If anyone was going to get eaten, it was going to be Bard.

“Arsehole,” Bard yelled after him, but only silence came back.

He had just enough time to spot the lift at the end of the corridor before the lights went out and he was plunged into darkness. A few heartbeats later and the emergency lighting kicked in, dim enough to cast long shadows up the walls. Bard clutched his fingers tighter around the handle of the flask and set off in the direction of the lift.

Bard had been in battle zones, he’d reported from rooftops with heavy artillery going off all around him, he’d been pinned down with a squad in a house for three hours, he’d seen the effects of IEDs first hand. He’d learned how to control his panic. But as he neared the dark pool of darkness at the end of corridor, the intersection going both left and right, the adrenaline dumped into his blood and his heartbeat started to race.

He couldn’t quite hear the noises around him, in the walls, in the ceiling, scratching, moaning, screaming; oppressive.

Before he could go more than a few yards, however, a shambling foot came into view around the corner, followed by a ragged blood soaked leg and finally the full zombie in all it’s undead glory. It saw him, groaned and started to run/lurch in his direction. It was wearing the suit of the journalist team, and was soon followed by the rest of the pack. Bard could probably have taken one, but ten, fifteen, twenty - they just kept coming. He turned and ran back the way he’d just come.

He was just passing the green room when the one they’d tripped up in there made a grab for him. Bard kicked it so hard in the head he heard the crunch, but he didn’t stop running. If he remembered rightly the AV Tech’s were down this way; camera, light, sound. He might find a more suitable weapon there.

Bard took a quick left and then skidded quickly into the right, just avoiding the snapping teeth suddenly in his face. The pack was still behind him, bashing off the walls, scrambling over each other in their lust to get him.

There was a barricade. He crashed into it, bashing his knee painfully.

The door to the sound and light department was within sight, but he couldn’t reach it. The trolleys and crates were impassible, unless you knew the way in. He yelled towards the door and saw a shadow move away from the window panel.

“Thorin,” he yelled. “Is that you?” Nothing. “I saw you, man.”

It was Thorin, head of the AV department. He moved back into sight and looked at Bard, not saying anything.

“Let me in.”

“Not gonna happen.” Thorin’s reply was final. “This place is our’s.”

‘Are you fucking kidding me?!“ Bard shouted. “They’re coming. If you don’t let me in, they’re going to kill me.” Thorin’s gaze flicked to something over Bard’s shoulder. “Be reasonable.” Bard implored.

“If I let you in, I make us vulnerable.”

It was true, Bard couldn’t argue with his logic. They’d been sensible enough to make a barricade and close themselves in. Bard glanced over his shoulder and then back at Thorin. Thorin was unmoving. He didn’t have time to argue anymore.

Bard threw up his arms in defeat and started to run again; the problem this time being that he didn’t know this part of the studio. He was running blind. Bard raced towards the nearest door, pelting through it and slamming it closed behind him on the arm that had just reached out to grab his own. He fumbled with the lock, hearing the undead crash and thump on the other side of the wood.

Turning, he looked to see where he was. There was something familiar about it, the rows of tiered audience seats, that he eyed suspiciously for any sign of movement, the two armchairs on the raised stage, facing each other companionably. It wasn’t until he stepped forward that he saw the name on the stage floor. He was on the set of Oropherion.

Bard edged into the space between the stage and the audience seats. He thought he heard something and stood perfectly still for a breath or two. Yes, it sounded like someone was repeatedly hitting raw meat with a rolling pin. Squelching. Crushing. Sucking. Bard wrinkled his nose in both distaste and fear as he continued to move into the open space.

There was someone else in there with him; he could see the jerk of a foot from behind a red velvet curtain. Bard raised his coffee flask and pulled back the curtain ready to attack. The man spun around, mic stand gripped in his hands like a club; it was dripping with the blood and the brains of the zombie he’d just pulverised into the stage floor.

Bard didn’t lower his weapon, in fact he took a few steps back, the madness in the others eyes and the blood spattered on his face and shirt, making Bard unsure if he was actually still living. The mic stand was lifted and swung with force at him and Bard ducked and twisted to the side, shouting out in fright.

When the stand connected with the undead that had been creeping up behind him, and almost decapitated it, Bard felt just a little silly for thinking that he’d been the mark. They both stared at each other, that familiar feeling tugged at him again and he squinted slightly.

“Wait,” he said. “Are you Thranduil Oropherion?”

“And who are you?”

“Bard Bowman.”

“The war correspondent.”

Bard nodded.

“Well, it seems the battle field has come to you for once, Mr Bowman.”

Bard almost hadn’t recognised him with his hair loose and falling around him like a fine veil of silver. The globs of brains probably didn’t help either.

“Can we get out that way?” Thranduil asked.

“No, there’s got to be about fifty of them out there.”

“Is that an exaggeration?”

“Nope, ‘fraid not.”

There was something about hearing Thranduil’s voice in person, deep and purring, that sent vibrations through Bard.

“Is that your weapon?” Thranduil did not look impressed, in fact he was looking at Bard like he was a bit of an idiot. Bard suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“It was the best I could do,” Bard retaliated. “I wasn’t really expecting the end of the world today.”

Thranduil ducked his head, the look on his face unreadable, but still speaking profoundly to Bard.

“I was heading to the newsroom,” Bard continued. “Maybe they know something.”

“I’ve just come from there,” Thranduil took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There’s no point, they’re all gone.”

“Gone?”

“Changed.” he elaborated. “We’ve got to get out of the building.”

Bard’s thoughts, once again, jumped to his kids. There was strength in numbers and Thranduil had ready proven he was quite handy with a mic stand.

“Ok,” Bard acquiesced. “Which way?”

Thranduil pointed to the back stage area and Bard hefted his flask, following along behind. It was a trap door in the floor leading to an under stage crawl space. Bard looked at Thranduil:

“After you,”

Thranduil gave a short huff of a laugh and then lowered himself down. It was then that Bard heard the crack of the door hinges giving way under the pressure of the zombies and he clambered in after Thranduil, pulling the trap door closed just as the first undead appeared on the stage.

It was cramped and close and for the most part all he could see was Thranduil’s arse in his view, which on any other day would have been fine.

“You watch my show?” Thranduil asked over his shoulder.

“What?”

“My show?” he repeated. “You recognised me.”

“I,” Bard didn’t want to let on that it was generally the last thing he watched in the evening before going to sleep; and it didn’t seem appropriate now anyway, given the situation. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Thranduil stopped moving and Bard bumped into him. Once they’d both gone still, Bard heard to it. A fast scrambling, scratching noise coming towards them, fast.

“Move,” Bard yelled, and Thranduil didn’t waste any time. If they were caught in this crawl space, they’d be dead for sure. They only had the light from Thranduil’s phone to guide them but it was enough to let him see the movement in the darkness around them; dead white eyes and bloody teeth.

Thranduil pulled himself out of the space and reached back for Bard, but at the exact moment something grabbed his foot. He kicked back dislodging its hold, only for another set of hands to quickly take its place. Bard looked at Thranduil and saw his own fear reflected back at him; it was only a fleeting second and then Thranduil dug his heels in and hauled him out of the under stage area, the clinging, grasping hands letting go of him as easily as quick sand.

Thranduil stumbled under Bard’s forward momentum, and they fell on top of each other, arms and legs tangling briefly before Bard was able to pull himself away and run to slam the trap door closed on the heads of the zombie’s trying to wriggle out of the pit after them. When he turned back Thranduil was wrestling with an undead, the mic stand the only thing keeping it’s teeth away from Thranduil’s face.

“A little help,” Thranduil barked and Bard willingly gave it, charging at the thing with his shoulder down and his head tucked. It fell away only to rebound instantly, flying at Bard. Thranduil harpooned its head with the end of the mic stand, the sharp end of the stand punched through the skull, stopping inches from Bard’s face, covering him in blood and white brain matter.

“Thanks,” he panted. “That’s the second times you’ve saved me.”

“I didn’t realise we were keeping tabs.”

They could see the fire exit up ahead but they’d have to fight through the seven or so undead to get to it. The way was blocked and they’d just been spotted. They exchanged a single look, and Bard knew exactly what the other man was thinking. There was only one option. The canteen.

It looked empty, the rows of tables mostly how they’d been left, trays with plates of food and beakers of drink. Bard saw a shape hunched over one of the tables and ducked, but it didn’t move, and it was only when he looked closer that he realised it’s head was in its plate and its guts were splayed open on the floor under the table.

Bard retched. It was the first actual dead dead person he’d seen since leaving the green room and the horror of the situation hit him again. Thranduil appeared out of the kitchen, shaking his head. It was clear. He gave the body a disapproving look, and then nudged Bard’s arm, indicating that they should keep moving. Bard nodded.

Thranduil was far calmer about this situation then Bard would have expected, as if he was separate from it all. Maybe it was shock. Bard had gone through something similar the first time he’d seen a soldier die from an IED. He’d wandered around for edges, just staring at thing and not really seeing anything.

They’d made it halfway across the food hall, when the swinging doors both in front and behind them burst open and zombie’s piled in. They tried to make a run for the kitchen but there were too many of them and they backed up until their shoulders touched, zombie’s circling around them.

“We’re allies in this.” Bard said urgently over his shoulder. “I’ve got your back.”

He only hoped Thranduil had his in return.

Bard had often heard that things could happen so fast in conflict situations that you didn’t even know what you were doing, you just did what you had to do to survive. He’d never really understood it till now. And now he just reacted. Somehow they managed to break through, Thranduil shoving him towards the food station in the middle of the hall. The only place of safety was a store hatch under the station, and they both squeezed in, yanking the steel doors shut just in time. The bashing, smashing, moaning was deafening in the darkness.

They were so close together that Bard couldn’t help notice how Thranduil’s body trembled slightly, from adrenaline perhaps, or maybe the numbness of shock was starting the wear off. Bard put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Thranduil turned, burying his face against Bard’s chest. Bard’s heartbeat quickened as he rubbed small circles into Thranduil’s back, placing his hands over Thranduil’s ears to try and lessen the noise of the undead outside.

There was another noise, a different noise above the groans of the undead, shouting and crashing loud enough that the zombie’s started to be drawn away. It was another long long time though before they dared edge open the hatch door and peer outside. A few scatterings of zombie’s but nothing they couldn’t avoid.

Thranduil looked abashed but he didn’t say anything as they crept passed the zombie’s.

‘What do you think caused that noise?“

“It sounded like fighting,” Bard replied. “Maybe people were trying to make a stand.”

If the blood smears on the walls was anything to go by, it looked like they failed.

“Bard, about that -”

“Hey, don’t worry about; people act different in these situations.”

Thranduil thought about it for a moment: “Thank you.” he eventually murmured.

The emergency lights were now flickering, which just made every shadow a zombie trying to eat them. They could see daylight up ahead and broke into a run, hitting the emergency exit hard and barreling outside on to the fire escape. The door banged shut behind them and Bard jumped, the sight in front of him having overwhelmed all other senses.

The undead were everywhere, their broken, twisted, shambling walk; snarling and growling and moaning; blood covered. The dead were also everywhere, laying in the gutter, on the pavement, in the road; their bodies ripped open, eaten. Thranduil reached for his hand, and he jumped again, before crushing Thranduil’s fingers in his and holding on for dear life.

There was smoke billowing from some of the houses, and he was very conscious that one of those plumes was close to where the kids were.

“What do we do?” Bard asked.

“I must find my son.” Thranduil replied, his voice resolute and determined.

“I have kids too.” Bard said, gently letting go of Thranduil’s hand. “It looks like we’re heading in opposite directions.”

Thranduil continued to stare out at the city, his mic stand still gripped in his hand.

“The end of the world,” he breathed.

“You’ll be OK, ” Bard stated. “You’re a survivor.”

A zombie bashed into the glass door behind them, teeth grinding and scratching.

They exchanged another look, both just seeming to understand what the other meant, and then they headed for the stairs down.

“It’s been nice to meet you Thranduil Oropherion.”

Thranduil nodded.

“I hope you find your children.”

Bard nodded.

They both turned their backs and started to walk away.


End file.
